


Professor X's Guide to Zombie Survival

by groovyphilia



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Character Undeath, F/M, Humor, M/M, Moderate Violence, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groovyphilia/pseuds/groovyphilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr had been living content and very separate lives. Charles didn't ask to become Professor X, Zombie Expert and Researcher. Erik didn't ask to become Magneto, Zombie Hunter Extraordinaire. It goes without saying that neither of them asked for a zombie apocalypse. </p><p>Still, what better place for romance than a groaning, shambling, undead world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Professor X's Guide to Zombie Survival

**Author's Note:**

> My god, this took only a year. A lengthy prologue, with hopefully shorter chapters to come. My thanks to [Rum](http://luciddrugs.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing, and to [Pan](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/) (what a loser) for letting me sob and shout about this since the beginning of time.
> 
> For those who can't remember, 'Amy' is the name that heterochromia-lady gives Charles at the start of XMFC!

 

** Chapter 0. A Lengthy Prologue **

***

It is difficult to begin at the beginning. Things have a tendency to begin all the time. There is also the problem of exactly what is beginning and when it actually began, both of which are depend on whom you ask.

For example, Sean Cassidy’s surprisingly sensible opinion is that the whole mess began when Erik Lehnsherr fished a soggy sheaf of papers out of the waters in _It’s_ _A Small World_. Alex Summers, on the other hand, believes it began back when they decided to follow the man beheading zombies with a warped lamppost. Raven Xavier believes it began with a phone call. For Hank McCoy, it all began on a sunny afternoon of being ignored by waiters, largely because he shortly wasn’t in a position to appreciate any further beginnings.

Some beginnings are unsurprising. Erik Lehnsherr, for instance, believes the entire sordid affair began when he met Charles Xavier.

Charles Xavier, on the other hand, believes it truly began much later, with Erik Lehnsherr pointing a gun at his head.

None of these are the two beginnings we will entertain.

***

_A Beginning, October 3 rd, Year 2013, California Disneyland, the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, A Stationary Train Cart._

California had been a mistake.

Not Erik's mistake, of course – that would imply that the compound resulting from the collision of Erik Lehnsherr and California was the mistake. What Erik truly meant was that the element of California was a mistake by nature, completely independent of his action: it was a mistake of the cosmos, of Fate and Consequence and the Natural Order of Events, all of which had shamefully handed in their resignation and shuffled out the front door upon the California's establishment. That was how Erik felt about California, from its sunny weather to its gratingly upbeat atmosphere. As a matter of fact, he was deeply ashamed of his decision to venture near the place at all.

This was all before the entire state had been overrun with shambling zombies, of course. Erik now found the area positively delightful.

“So,” said one of the Summers brothers. Erik didn’t particularly care which; he was still having difficulty telling them apart, the fact they looked nothing alike notwithstanding. They were typically distinguished by Alex being a little shit, and Scott being a slightly larger little shit.

“What,” said Erik.

“You’re the boss, we know,” said the Summers brother, which established him as Alex, “but do we have a plan?”

“I always have a plan,” Erik answered, surveying the park below. The wind chose this moment to ruffle his hair majestically, much to his private delight.

“Well, yeah,” Alex allowed, “but, uh. What I mean to say is, what the fuck are we – “

A brief scuffle arose in the Cabin No.3, punctuated with the occasional muttered ‘ _do you_ want _him to kill you?’_ and ‘ _shut the fuck up’_ , halting only at the sharp whistle of speeding metal. Erik cracked his knuckles, shards of steel peeling off the train, and picked off another Walker shambling up the train tracks. It crumpled to the ground with a disappointed grunt.

“We just want to know,” said Sean meekly, once the grunting had ceased, “why we’re on top of Thunder Mountain. That’s all.”

“Why, Cassidy?” Erik asked, question just verging on snide. “Do you have a better place to be?”

Sean gave a mumble that might have been _‘I was just asking’_. Erik’s remark, however, prompted a thoughtful ‘ _hmm_ ’ from their rear guard.

“Erik’s got a point,” said Darwin, legs slung over the edge of Cabin No.6. “We have a great view of any incoming Walkers from this vantage point, and we’re parked on an easily defensible ledge – but we could still abandon ship – “

“Train,” Sean supplied.

“ – All right, abandon _train_ and make a run for it if we need. It’s a rocky and steep terrain, but manageable. Good place to camp out while we plan our next move. I can see why Erik picked it.”

“Of course,” said Erik quickly. “I thought of all of that.”

He stood up before anybody could question this claim, striding across the boiler and placing his foot on the miniature chimney. His lean frame cut an appropriately impressive figure against the sunrise. “But since you asked,” he announced, surveying the dispersed hordes below, “I do have a plan.”

Non-zombie groans and clatters met this proclamation, the former from Scott, the latter from Sean dropping his supplies. “Let’s hear it, then,” said Scott, whose face Erik briefly fantasised about punching. “How are we going to die next?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Erik said sleekly, “but you are, unfortunately, still alive.”

“And you can go fuck yourself too, Lehnsherr,” Scott advised, “but you know what I mean. Your plans tend to work out in the end, but I still don’t think firestorming Paradise Pier was strictly necessary.”

He had a point. Smoke was still rising in the distance, drifting along with the occasional screech of burning undead. On the other hand, the Sun Wheel had toppled into the bay with a very satisfying crash.

“Listen up,” Erik began. The group shuffled to attention, because when Erik Lehnsherr told you to listen up, you listened up, unless you wanted your own rifle smacking you in the face. “Humanity, and superhumanity, is in shambles.” A pause. “They are literally shambling. The Walkers outnumber us a million to one. Our odds of surviving to see the rise of mutants from the ashes are even worse.”

 He paused dangerously, waiting for somebody to point out he had left humans out of the equation. Nobody took the bait, and Erik continued with renewed self-satisfied air.

“We’ve been cleansing the cities of Walkers one by one. It could mean the difference between life and death for the next group of survivors that stumbles in, but do you think it makes a difference in the long run? Do you think we can stop the dozens of new Walkers that invade the cities after we leave? Do you think we’re making a difference?”

He turned, staring at the group until they realised they were supposed to answer. There were several moments of silence as each member tried to determine the Correct Response.

“Loads,” Sean said, as Alex grunted a “Just barely”.

“Very good, Summers,” said Erik, sending Sean into a sulk. “We put a barely visible dent in the odds, and that’s it. Every day, we’re more likely to end up dead before dusk than seeing another sunrise. We do this every day, picking off Walkers one by one, but we’d probably be better off putting bullets in our own skulls. So do you know what I think?”

The group remained in expectant silence. Erik really was on a roll today. He leaned forward, smiling with disconcerting amount of teeth engineered to both inspire and terrify.

“I think,” he said, “I’m going to have as much excitement as possible while taking these bastards out – and that, _Summers,_ means firestorming Paradise Pier was necessary. “ He paused for effect, and noted with satisfaction that the otherswere staring at him as though he were insane. Good. “Now, as I said before – I have a plan.”

This was the Plan:

Frontierland was a tricky spot to clear with its wide open spaces and simple wooden (see: zombie-climbable) fences. It was, in short, not ideally defensible. It did, however, have the benefit of a nearly straight path from Thunder Mountain to the adjacent Fantasyland, specifically the King Arthur Carrousel.

“Oh no,” said Sean.

Oh yes. The Carrousel itself was hardly any better as a fort to hold, but it could, if its power were restored, be an excellent beacon.

“No, no, no, no,” said Sean.

Yes. With its blaring music and flashing lights, it would capture the Walkers’ attention to the exclusion of everything else, which meant one could remain in the safety behind the high Carrousel security fence, and pick off the swarming horde at one’s leisure, possibly even with time for lunch at intervals.

“This is such a bad plan,” Sean wailed.

It was a flawless plan. The only question that remained, of course, was getting to the Carrousel itself. Straight as the path might be, it was also swarming with Walkers, and there was a fair chance of them being overwhelmed before they reached the gate – assuming, of course, they were walking. True, they had no vehicle to speak of, but if they gained an appropriate momentum, and travelled at a high enough speed...

“This is your worst idea yet,” Scott observed.

“It will _work_ ,” Erik ground out, brandishing his Disneyland map brochure. “There is metal running all through this train. I can manoeuvre us through the hordes.”

The survivors glanced at each other. Even Darwin looked doubtful. “Surely we could find a sweeper position that doesn’t require us to ride a bunch of carts off the edge of Thunder Mountain?”

Erik glared. “If you have a better plan, now is the time.”

Despairing silence greeted his words. It had long been unanimously accepted that Erik was the best planner among them, which said a lot.

Erik smirked. Time to drive the final nail in the coffin.

“One more thing.” He pointed at the distant spires of Fantasyland. “It’s tempting to stay here, but the real prize is out there. Darwin?”

To his credit, Darwin only gave Erik the briefest of dubious looks before training his gaze on the Carrousel, his eyes adjusting instantly to the dawn lighting. His breath hitched. He slid slowly down into his cart, clutching his shotgun close.

“What?” Alex demanded. “What is it?”

“Vending machines,” Darwin answered in a hoarse murmur. “Intact. Three of them. One’s still flickering, the drinks might even be chilled.”

A stunned silence followed this revelation.

“Do they have Mountain Dew?” Sean whispered, almost tearfully.

“Looks like it. 7-Up looks sold out, but I think they have Coke.”

Alex stood, vaulting into Cart No.2 with steely, do-or-die purpose. “That settles it.” He readied his submachine gun. “We’re getting to those vending machines.”

“We hold down at the Carrousel _first_ ,” Erik reminded him sharply.

“And then we get to the vending machines.”

If there was one thing that could be said about his motley crew of companions, it was that they could fixate on an edible goal with a single-mindedness that rivalled a feasting Walker. Erik sighed, and picked up his emergency shotgun.

“Cassidy, take Cart No.1 and cover my back. I want the Summers brothers in Cart No.2, thinning out the hordes from all sides as much as possible. Darwin, pick off any Walkers on our tail from Cart No.3.” Metal creaked and crunched as the remaining carts detached themselves, and the steel front bumper formed itself into lethal spikes. “I’ll take the front cab, steer us to the Carrousel, clear the path and open the gate. Make a run for it when we reach the fence.”

The carts lurched along the tracks, clanking steadily around the side of the mountain, slowly picking up speed. A sharp hand movement from Erik and the track ahead broke off from the trail, turning towards the Carrousel and extending precariously into the air. Wheels spun. Wind whistled.

“Coke,” Alex breathed, cocking his gun. “Cold fucking _Coke_ , I’m so fucking ready – “   

The train launched itself into the air.

***

**_What, you might ask, is the Green Flu?_ **

_This question is easily answered. The ‘Green Flu’ is, as many are aware, the colloquial name for the epidemic currently plaguing the globe, resulting in mass infections of city populations, reducing them to snarling, shambling shadows of their former selves. If you are reading this guide, you are doubtlessly very aware of this. It might, therefore, be a burning question in one’s mind – what are the origins of the Green Flu? Where did it come from, and why? Or perhaps, more accurately, who are we to blame for this dreadful mess?_

_There are several theories that the current epidemic is the result of ‘voodoo’ or ‘witchcraft’._

_This is incorrect._

_There is an alternative theory, touted by some of the more enthusiastically religious, that this is merely an instance of God’s judgement, intended to smite the unworthy and leave the righteous to inherit the Earth._

_This is, by all observable evidence, even more incorrect._

_Yet another theory, popular amongst the anti-mutant factions, is that mutants (one’s mileage may vary on whether this includes artificial superhumans) are responsible for the outbreak, and containment of the Flu may only be achieved via complete and utter extermination of mutantkind._

_This is, astoundingly, slightly closer to the truth, in the way one’s nose may be closer than one’s chin to the Horsehead Nebula when faced in the appropriate direction._

_It is true that a mutant is responsible for the Green Flu. However, one may as well say that a male is responsible for the Green Flu, or someone standing at five feet nine. Readers may be familiar with the rather shoddily-reported and very much sensationalised nuclear plant incident, involving one Mr. Sebastian Shaw and his untimely death. While damage control was prima facie successful, it seems that an undetected side-effect of Shaw’s actions was a rapidly mutating virus, the initial method of transmission which yet remains unknown. The current strain, however, has reportedly been transmitted through bites from infected individuals or introduction of infected bodily fluids into one’s body._

_That’s all very well, the reader might say – but what do we care how this catastrophe began? A more pertinent question, one might feel, is how one may stop it – a fair point, but I maintain that understanding the origins of a disaster is crucial to addressing it. Perhaps you might then say the more important question to answer is_ why _the Infected (or ‘Undead’, or ‘Walkers’) are hostile towards us, and_ why _they hunger for living flesh._

_To that, I’m afraid the answer is dissatisfying simple. Firstly, they are carnivorous. Secondly, they target abundant and easy prey. And thirdly...they are hungry._

_Very hungry._

**_\- Professor X’s Guide to Zombie Survival, Chapter One: ‘What is a Zombie? An Introduction for the Discerning Survivor’, Page 3._ **

_***_

_Another Beginning, Six Months Ago, April 27 th, Year 2013, Xavier Residence (Without Affiliation to Any Xavier Apart from That Wayward Boy, As Mrs. Sharon Xavier Would Like to be Made Perfectly Clear). _

The telephone was the sort that aggressively impressed upon the viewer than they were living in the twenty-first century. It had a lot of buttons, hidden until one startled them into appearing with a wave of a hand. It was also emitting an unintelligible noise.

Its owner gave a loud, resilient snore, and woke an hour later to the distant sound of a running shower.  

Charles Xavier was not a morning person. Amy, however, was. It would be taking a toll on their newfound relationship if Charles hadn’t had the impressive ability to sleep through earthquakes, tornadoes, and possibly a zombie apocalypse.

 _Tea,_ Charles thought firmly, ambling his way towards the kitchen. The light on the answering machine was blinking. He sighed, fiddled with several buttons, and went to put on the water to boil. Technology had never been his strong point – according to Raven, his knowledge of modern gadgetry remained resolutely dated to the 60s, despite her best efforts.

She had picked out the phone. It had taken Charles a week to figure out how to use it, in which five days consisted of studiously avoiding the new contraption in his living room.

The recording buzzed, and beeped. Charles shut his eyes, leaned against the countertop, and let the tense, measured voice of Dr. Bruce Banner wash over him.

_“Professor Xavier – ah...hopefully this message will reach you. If you haven’t already evacuated, please respond as soon as...”_

“Huh,” Charles said groggily, watching steam rise from the kettle.

A clatter from the bathroom eased him marginally into the waking world. Amy was taking a rather long shower. It was difficult to decide if it was out of character – she was equally scrupulous about hygiene and water conservation.

_“ – the warning was issued to the relevant authorities this morning, but it’s far worse than they think. I couldn’t risk a call to you without S.H.I.E.L.D’s authorisation, but Mr. Stark – you remember Tony – retrieved some information about a week ago, unlawfully, I think – “_

_Tony Stark._ The name tugged at the edges of Charles’ flagging consciousness.  Yes, Charles remembered Tony Stark, though the memories mostly consisted of copious amounts of alcohol and inappropriate touching. There was also something about him being a genius, but Charles had been more concerned with the admirable definition of Tony’s rear end at the time. Or perhaps that had been Captain Rogers. Or Mr. Barton.

Charles’ memories of the Avengers tended to be fuzzy; he got distracted when surrounded by spandex.

_“ – the point is, it’s bad. Horrible, actually, ah ha ha ha. The samples are mutating at an unprecedented rate; I could hardly believe it myself – “_

“Amy?” Charles called. “Darling?”

There was no answer. Perhaps she had fallen asleep in the shower. That would be a surprise; it wasn’t as though Charles had been _that_ energetic the night before. As far as stamina went, actually, Amy usually surpassed him.

Charles was about to call out again, when there was a thump on the bathroom door.

 _“ – it goes without saying that a leading expert in genetic and biological mutations would be greatly appreciated –_ desperately needed _– “_

“Amy?” Charles repeated.

Various events through the course of history had determined that a loud ‘ _thump_ ’ followed by a deadly silence generally boded ill. There was, in fact, a particular incident, sloppily documented at the bottom of a filing cabinet in a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility several states away.

Charles would not come across this particular document for another three months, which was, of course, why he opened the door.

***

_**[RE: W. Wilson , Appendix H] Dated: 18/03/2003; P. COULSON; ACCESSED BY: B. BANNER.** _

_“On 16/03/03, Mr. W. Wilson was taken into custody. Following three partially successful escape attempts, twenty-seven counts of property destruction and the release of several wild animals [PRIOR LOCATION: UNKNOWN. PENDING INVESTIGATION.], Mr. Wilson was successfully detained and subsequently subjected to interrogation. [TRANSCRIPTS MODIFIED/ABRIDGED. REASON: UNNECESSARY DIGRESSION.]_

_From Mr. Wilson, an account of the events of 02/01/2003 was obtained:_

_Approximately 1 six individuals, trained in combat, were dispatched to clear a farmhouse in [CLASSIFIED] of all ‘mobile humanoid forms’. Two agents were sent to reconnoitre the building. Several gunshots sounded, followed by a ‘thump’, then silence. Another agent was sent in, who scouted the building, and reported ‘all clear’ by shouting from the upstairs room. Shortly after, another ‘thump’ was heard, followed by further silence._

_When the remaining three agents, including Mr. Wilson, entered the building, they were promptly ambushed by five of the ‘walking dead’ 2. Ranged and long-handed weapons proved useless in the tight quarters. Two agents were injured by wild shots and shortly devoured. Due to his accelerated healing capacity, Mr. Wilson managed to escape, and promptly tossed a lantern through an open window. S.H.I.E.L.D. search parties report that only cinders and charred skeletons remained3._

___________________________________

_1 The exact number of individuals involved was unable to be determined, due to Mr. Wilson’s propensity for referring to his colleagues as ‘that guy’, ‘that other guy’, ‘that hot babe’, ‘that guy with the porn ‘stache’, and variations thereof. An estimation has been made from his account of the events._

_2 Mr. Wilson’s exact description of his attackers was ‘five smelly dudes’, but further investigation of the remains has confirmed them to be infected carriers._

_3 This record is not, by any means, to serve as testimony that Mr. Wilson’s accounts are reliable. A vague outline of events may, however, occasionally be pieced together from his recollections._

***

_October 3 rd, Year 2013, California Disneyland, the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, A Train Cart Flying Through the Air._

The zombies raised their arms as the cart flew overhead. Erik was seized by the irrational urge to do a stage dive.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Sean whimpered, “oh my god, we’re going to die, _oh my god_ – “

“No, we’re not,” said Erik accurately. The front cart executed an unexpectedly smooth landing, crunching several zombies under its wheels. The rest of the undead were less cooperative, and stumbled towards the carts with offended groans.

They were promptly mowed down by gunfire, or whipped aside by an uprooted lamppost. Erik liked lampposts. It was almost as though people had been _trying_ to pave every sidewalk with weapons for his personal use.

Humanity was very lucky he never became a supervillain.

Scott was screaming a question. Alex and Sean were simply screaming. Erik ignored them – he was in the Zone, he was Erik Lehnsherr: Zombie Destroyer, Master of Magnetism, Your Captain For Today, though admittedly he was less driving the train and more throwing it bodily through the hordes –

“Lehnsherr!” Scott called sharply. “Can’t you make this ride any smoother?”

“My apologies,” Erik responded, voice dripping with sarcasm. He waved a hand, and a Walker parted regretfully with its head. “We are rolling over the corpses of a hundred undead _, expect a bit of turbulence_.”

 “That’s my fucking point, you – “ Several rounds of swearing and gunfire. “ – We have to keep the wheels clear, or – “

Later, Erik would blame the entire incident on Scott for jinxing it. As it were, the wheels of the train gave an ominous crunch.

The passengers stared as a disembodied hand scrabbled wildly at the front wheel, skittered vaguely into the space between the wheel and the cart, and stuck fast. The train ground to a halt, a hundred feet from the Carrousel gate.

The decaying hand almost seemed to exude a self-satisfied air.

“Shut up,” said Erik, as Scott opened his mouth. “Not a damned word – “

“There’s an ancient proverb,” said Sean in a low voice, “that goes: _Man who drives like hell is bound to get there_.”

“No, there isn’t,” said Alex flatly.

“Guys,” Darwin warned, reloading his shotgun with swift, practiced movements. He scanned the oncoming horde, considered his companions, and lowered his weapon. “We have to make a run for it.”

“Run through the _horde_?”

“He’s right, it’s the only way,” Erik said, a New Plan forming itself rapidly in his mind’s eye. “Everyone, get down in the carts. Alex, take my position and see if you can blast away the horde around us to buy us some time. Summers – “

“We’re both Summers.”

“ – the one that’s a prick, lead the group to the gate, keep your eyes forward and take out any Walkers ahead of us the best you can. The rest of us will follow and take out any others that come at you from the sides.”

“No fucking way, man.” Alex raised his palms, shaking his head. “Those are our emergency tactics; Scott can’t shoot and run straight nudging his shades up and down, and I might take everyone out – “

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Erik said, sounding remarkably calm, “but _this is an emergency_.”

The horde chose this moment to groan and snarl in an ominous chorus. Several broke into a run and shortly fell victim to Darwin’s impeccable aim, but every Survivor knew the opening burst always heralded dozens of copycat runners. Erik ducked into Cart No. 1, and threw the Summers brothers a look that strongly suggested that if they refused to move, he would tear them apart with his teeth before the Walkers could.

“Fine,” Alex breathed, clambering onto the boiler. “Fine, I’ll do it. Everybody, get _down_.”

They slunk down into the carts, and watched as Alex cracked his knuckles. He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He opened them. He performed several dynamic stretches.

“Alex,” Scott said warningly.

“Shut up!” Alex clenched his fists, and embarked on what Sean had dubbed his ‘sassy hip swivel’. The air crackled.

Erik squeezed his eyes shut, and the world burned red behind his eyelids.

“All clear!” Alex called, panting slightly. “I say we’ve got two minutes before the first lot come running.”

“Good work.” Erik briefly surveyed the surroundings. While Alex’s aim often left much to be desired, he had at least managed to dismember virtually every Walker in a forty-foot radius, the remainder of which were already being picked off by Darwin’s shotgun. “Summers, up front. Watch your feet for the heads, they’ll still be biting.”

“Watch your feet, he says,” Scott laughed hopelessly, vaulting over the cart wall. “Watch your feet, run for the gate, shoot straight, while escaping from flesh-hungry zombies, sure, no problem – “

Erik placed his hands on Scott’s back, and helpfully gave him a running start.

They cleaved their way through the undead stragglers, Darwin pausing occasionally to take down the Walkers in pursuit. Erik curled a fist and made a sharp movement – a middle-aged zombie jerked as she was neatly decapitated by her own necklace, her head snapping at his ankles as it rolled along the pavement. Against his better judgement, Erik gave it a running kick, and watched as it sailed over the fence with satisfaction.

“Nice shot, sir!” Sean called from the back.

“I swear,” Scott began, “if you people are fucking around back there – “

“Eyes front, Summers.”

Scott complied with a considerable amount of grumbling, but he was simply being difficult. There were worse places to point one’s eyes – the Carrousel gate loomed up at twelve o’clock, a relatively scant two hundred metres away. A trio of Walkers lurched forward at three o’clock. The horde was regrouping behind them at six o’clock. Still more Walkers stumbled towards them at nine o’clock, cinnamon sugar still clinging to their lips.

Erik wondered what had happened to the churro stand when its patrons had turned into flesh-hungry monsters. Gone out of business, no doubt.

“Boss,” said Alex, who was carefully not mentioning Erik’s surveillance pirouette, “trouble up ahead.”

“What?” Erik twisted back around, and swore. The thronging hordes of Main Street had somehow been alerted, and were now steadily converging on Scott like a V-formation of carnivorous geese. “Everyone but Summers, spread out and redirect your fire to the front; push back the horde point as far as possible, I’ll take anything closer than twenty feet – “

“Relax,” Scott said, fumbling dangerously with his shades. “Hold your fire, I’ve got this – “

“Summers, _no_ – “

***

**_The Green Flu travels through the bloodstream from the initial entry point to the brain._ **

_It then utilises the frontal lobe cells for replication, simultaneously destroying them in the process. The means of which it achieves this is yet unknown._

_Autopsies have, however, determined that contrary to popular optimistic belief, the final stage Infected is not simply a person with severe physical and mental illness. For all intents and purposes, the final stage Infected is dead. Within the 20 th hour of infection, heart and brain activity is completely absent – but surely, the reader might ask, this cannot be true? As grotesque as their efforts may be, the Infected do walk and talk._

_The explanation for this behaviour is the Flu’s unique trait of mutating the brain to a completely new organ, which is, astoundingly, independent of oxygen. Complete mutation of this pseudo-brain eventually allows for limited re-animation of the corpse. While the accompanying hunger is yet to be fully explained, it is theorised that it is simply the virus’ unique way of encouraging transmission. At no point of infection is there any cure._

_From this information, I must offer the reader the following advice:_

**_DO NOT attempt to reason with an Infected._ **

**_DO NOT attempt to treat, or cure an Infected individual._ **

**_DO NOT hesitate in dispatching an attacking Infected, unless more efficient means of escape are available._ **

_It is, however, advised to be sensitive to the feelings of your fellow Survivors, many of which have lost loved ones to the Flu, and choose to remain hopeful of a way to reverse the process. They may, therefore, prefer to refer to the Infected as ‘Walkers’. This Guide, however, will continue to refer to them as ‘Infected’ for the majority of its chapters, as much of its content focuses on simple survival. (Refer to Chapter 17: ‘I Don’t_ Actually _Want to Shoot My Husband: Ethics in an Undead World’.)_

 **_A special note for telepaths_ ** _: It goes without saying that any telepath with a modicum of sense should be able to **instantly** identify an Infected on sight. _

**_\- Professor X’s Guide to Zombie Survival, Chapter Two: ‘Debunking Myths: Not Actually A Flu’, Page 14._ **

***

_April 27 th, Year 2013, Xavier Residence, the Open Bathroom Door._

The first thing Charles noticed was that Amy was completely starkers. He would be far more appreciative of the fact if she hadn’t been staring at him, glassy-eyed and slack-jawed. “Amy, darling,” he said cautiously, “have you been at the whisky again?”

She bared her teeth in response, letting out a guttural snarl.

Charles was extremely perturbed. As far as he had experienced, a hangover _did,_ on occasion, cause one to emit tortured moans and death-rattles, but no amount of alcohol had ever caused Amy to let him open the door in the middle of her shower.

“Well, you’re obviously not one for talking today,” he said kindly, reaching for her bathrobe and tossing it over. It landed over her shoulder and head with a ‘flump’. “If you’ll get dressed, I’ll make us a cup of tea. Clothing is optional, as always.”

He ambled back towards the kitchen, humming placidly to himself. The answering machine was now emitting a steady stream of white noise, punctuated by static and high-pitched whines of interference. If anybody had made an effort to transcribe it, it might have read like this:

_“ScchreeeEEbzztbzzREEEEE – Professo – schzzzzshh – don’t – schzzREEEschzzzch – they’re here, don’t – schzzshhCREEEE – “_

Charles frowned at the telephone. It was obviously malfunctioning. He unplugged it, just to make sure Amy wasn’t bothered by the horrid noise.

“Earl Grey, as usual?” Charles called over his shoulder. Amy turned slowly to face him, bathrobe still draped over her head. She growled. “Earl Grey it is,” Charles agreed, putting the water on to boil.

He took a step to the side, reaching for the tea, and narrowly missed being slammed against the counter from behind. Amy collided heavily against the edge, knees buckling, before staggering to her feet.

The bathrobe slipped off her head. She looked up at Charles. A slow trickle of blood ran thickly from the corner of her mouth.

Charles was starting to worry. He was also very upset. While he typically enjoyed women throwing themselves at him, he had never meant it literally.

“Sweetheart, what – “ he managed, before Amy lurched at him with an ungodly screech. Charles instinctively ducked, covering his head with his hands, and sent poor Amy sprawling on the linoleum.

Most would agree that common sense was not Charles’ strong point: while he was a brilliant scientist, he managed to make terrible judgments at a considerable frequency above the norm. Like most beings, however, he possessed the basic instinct that when something lunges at you with teeth gnashing, there is likely to be a cause for alarm.

Charles scrambled to his feet, retracting his left ankle out of biting distance.

He stood, carefully pushing the kitchen tables and chairs into an aesthetically displeasing formation that nevertheless sectioned off a deranged-girlfriend-occupied corner of the room. And then he retrieved a blanket from the living room, throwing it over Amy’s head for good measure.

Charles located his mobile phone on the counter, hit ‘3’ on the speed-dial, and took a long, calming sip of tea.

It was several rings before Raven answered. She greeted him with a polite ‘Hello’, which meant two things: either she was very angry at Charles, or disaster was erupting around her.

“Good morning to you too,” Charles said. Amy thrashed under the blanket with a guttural shriek, pitched precisely to interfere with the reception. Charles frowned, and moved to the living room. “Could I speak to Hank, please? I have a bit of a problem.”

“I’ve called you twelve times,” Raven said. “Twelve times, Charles.”

“Well, yes,” Charles said with a concerned glance towards the kitchen. He winced at the crash of shattering china plates. “I was otherwise preoccupied. But be a dear and put Hank on the line, won’t you? It’s important.”

“Not until one of you tells me what’s going on,” Raven said firmly. There was a brief sound of protest in the background, which quickly faded, as though silenced by a deathly glare. “Hank has been panicking all morning, telling me I’ve had to get _you_ on the phone. Something about a ‘ _government alert to the scientific community_ ’.”

“I have no idea what he’s talking about,” Charles said, not dishonestly. Something nagged at the edges of his mind, as though he had failed to take notice of something important. “But my girlfriend is completely in the nude, and just tried to eat me. I’m finding it a little bit difficult to be concerned about anything else, at the moment.”

There was a long silence, interrupted briefly by a clatter. It sounded like a kitchen chair being toppled over.

“I really didn’t need to know that,” Raven finally said, “but I think you’ve got it a bit backwards.”

“Backwards?” Charles asked vaguely, now feeling around hastily in the storage cabinet.

“Yes, well, you’re the one who’s supposed to do the eat –“

“Oh _. Oh._ Goodness, no.” Charles’ fingers closed over the dusty rubber grip of an aluminum bat. “I wouldn’t call Hank about that; the poor boy’s so easily embarrassed. I meant she tried to take a bite out of my ankle.”

“Oh.” Silence. “…And you didn’t want her to?”

Charles thought about that for a moment. “No, I really didn’t.”

“I think,” Raven said, “you had better talk to Hank.”

***

_**[CLASSIFIED FILE: PROJECT Z] Dated: 07/01/2013; P. COULSON; ACCESSED BY: N. FURY.** _

_OUTBREAK LEVEL: **Class 1.**_

_APPENDIX A: Dr. Banner suggests possibility of **Class 2** outbreak. Public alert requested._

_APPENDIX B: Request denied._

___________________________________

_Class 1: Typical affected areas include rural or sparsely populated areas. Number of Infected individuals below twenty. Infected areas no larger than a twenty-mile radius OR contained. Media coverage absent._

_Class 2:  Typical affected areas include urban or densely populated areas. Number of Infected individuals range between twenty and one hundred. Human casualties may amount to several hundred. Organised suppression advised, supplemented by state and federal law enforcement. Media coverage probable; censorship advised._

_Refer to attached files for full outbreak classifications._

**_***_ **

_October 3 rd, Year 2013, California Disneyland, the Remains of the Carrousel Gate._

The good: the Carrousel fence was just up ahead, the horde was a bloodied heap on the tarmac, and the survivors were not.

The bad: the gate now had a large, lightly smoking hole in it.

“Fuck’s sake, Scott,” said Alex.

“At least we’re alive,” Scott retorted, and Erik hated him, because he hated it when Scott was right. Still, an entrance was an entrance, and so the crew shuffled through the gate with only a moderate degree of resignation.

The horde had once again begun to groan vaguely in the distance. Erik could sympathise.

“We probably won’t be safe in here,” Sean remarked, surveying the hole with a connoisseurial air.  “Our old plan was pretty big on zombies not being able to get through the gate.”

“You don’t say,” said Erik, with an impressively moderated degree of snideness. The cogs in the head were turning, as they were wont to do in difficult situations. The sight of the oncoming undead horde was, however, making them creak slightly in protest.

Erik really, really hated California.

“Can all of you swim?” he asked, very suddenly.

Scott snorted. “This should be good.”

“I think so,” Darwin cut in hastily, glancing at the rest, who nodded in confirmation. “But if you’re planning on swimming across Paradise Pier, it’s a ways off. And burning to the ground.”

“No need for that.” Erik shut his eyes, feeling the not-so-distant hum of corrugated steel. He could _work_ with this. “Follow me.”

And then he tore another hole in the opposite end of the gate. The party stared at the twisted metal bars in horror.

“I’m gonna assume,” Alex said carefully, as Sean gaped like a fish, “that you had a great reason for doing that.”

***

**_The Golden Rule: Destroy the brain._ **

_Infected have no physical sensations. All nerve receptors throughout the body remain dead after reanimation. This, truly, is their greatest and most terrifying advantage over the living._

_We, with the exception of a few unique mutants, generally have the ability to experience physical pain as a signal of bodily damage. It is a gift of physiology and instinct that has allowed us to survive as a species, but naturally, staying alive isn’t particularly high on an undead’s list of concerns. Wounds on an Infected will not be noticed and therefore, will not deter an attack._

_An important point to note is that the Infected’s pseudo-brain does not function as that of a living being. A legless Infected may drag itself along the ground for miles, or in certain environments, may lay dormant until stirred into action by a passing Survivor. A decapitated Infected’s head is still dangerous, as it may survive (and bite) indefinitely without its body._

_Even blunt force trauma – perhaps a head wound by a baseball bat – may be insufficient. It is possible to briefly stun a zombie (presumably by disrupting the pseudo-brain’s function) with such methods, but I must implore you – be thorough. Be vigilant. The last thing you want is a supposedly-downed Infected staggering once again to its feet to feast on your flesh._

_If you take nothing else from this Guide, dear readers, remember this: **destroy the brain.**_

**_\- Professor X’s Guide to Zombie Survival, Chapter Four: ‘Fighting the Undead: From Rifles to Table Lamps’, Page 53._ **

***

_April 27 th, Year 2013, McCoy Residence, Inhabited by Hank McCoy, but also Raven Xavier To Her Liking. _

There was a lot of crashing and garbled shrieking coming from the receiver. Hank held the phone to his ear, and wondered if he should be worried. “Professor?”

 _“Sorry!”_ More clattering, and a distant, guttural snarl. _“And do call me Charles, by the way. There’s a bit of a fuss, er – what was it you wanted to - ?”_

“Well,” Hank began, over the sounds of toppling furniture, “It’s the nuclear incident, sir. Do you remember the reports I forwarded to you a few months ago?”

 _“Of course I do, dear boy, do get on with it.”_ A loud thud. “ _Oh, Amy, darling, I’m so sorry, won’t you please – “_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Raven snatched the receiver from Hank’s hand. “Is your girlfriend attacking you?”

Charles’ voice, tinny but audible from the stolen receiver, took on a wheedling tone. _“I’m sure she’s just not well – “_

“You have the bat? Hit her with it!”

 _“Raven!”_ Even over the screeching, Charles sounded appalled. _“I would never!”_

Raven took a deep breath, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Hank automatically took a step back. “Charles, she’s lost her mind. From what little I could get out of Hank, so has half the nation. _Hit her with the bat_ , or I swear, I will shave your head in your sleep.”

A brief silence greeted her words – then a solid ‘ _crack’_ , and a small cry of horror. “ _Oh, Amy, I’m so, so terribly sorry – “_

“Good thinking,” Hank murmured to Raven in an aside.

“I know,” Raven said, returning the phone to him. “I never liked her either.”

Hank, from the benefit of several years of experience, refrained from comment. Raven was very pretty and very frightening, had been Hank’s kinda-girlfriend for the past few months, and also had proved to be more adept at real-world situations. Hank was quite happy to leave matters to her hands and shuffle along behind her in a bookish daze.

Still, there was the matter of scientific importance. Hank cradled the phone to his ear, and coughed. “Anyway, Professor Xavier – we don’t have much time. Stay in the house, and we’ll come get you, and I’ll explain on the – Professor?”

 _“Hank,”_ Charles sobbed into his ear. “ _Oh, it’s horrible, Amy’s bleeding, and – “_

His mentor sounded truly distraught. Hank wondered if a joke would lighten the mood, but by the look on Raven’s face, it probably wasn’t wise. Instead, Hank cleared his throat, and spoke as gently as possible. “I know it’s been a rough morning, Professor – “

 _“Charles,”_ Charles sniffled.

“- Charles,” Hank corrected, in strangled tones. “But you need to trust me. Pack your briefcase and some travel supplies, stay indoors, and we’ll come get you.”

“And keep a hold of that baseball bat!” Raven called, from where she was tossing supplies into a backpack.”Swing again if she starts twitching!”

Hank winced.

The car was in the basement level down the stairs. Hank fiddled nervously with his glasses as they piled into it – Raven, as usual, was driving – and pulled out of the parking lot. “According to the reports, when the Infection hits, it hits hard and fast. Refugees started pouring in this morning, so I’d say we have approximately two hours before we see the first signs of Infection – “

His voice cut off in a scream as someone flung himself bodily at the car, and Raven slammed on the brakes. Their victim – a middle-aged man in a business suit – collided with the windscreen with a sickening crunch.

“Oh my god!” Raven fumbled with her seatbelt. “Shit! I didn’t mean to – he – “

“Raven,” Hank said weakly, staying her arm with a hand. “I don’t think he’s...well.”

They stared through the windscreen. Business Suit stared back at them, bloodied gums bared in a snarl. He scrabbled at their windscreen.

“ _Approximately two hours_ ,” Raven repeated, turning to Hank.

“Give or take three hours?” he offered weakly.

Raven sighed, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _‘scientists_ ’. An unfair statement, as Hank was about to protest – before she slammed her foot on the accelerator, swerving violently to the left and throwing Business Suit off the hood of her car before speeding ahead. The roads, Hank noted with distress, were in a state of moderate chaos – confused families piling into their cars, others rushing back into their homes, Infected tackling people to the pavement, and at one memorable point, a young, blood-stained Infected girl chewing steadily on a screaming man’s arm.

“Ew,” said Raven. Hank found he had to agree.

They swerved through the streets. Before long, Charles’ home was visible ahead. The area was suspiciously clear, and ominously quiet.

Hank had a second to remark on this before his mentor was thrown bodily through his front door.

“Charles!” Raven kicked open her door – unnecessary, Hank thought, it’s not like opening it would have taken any longer – and raced to her brother’s side in a blur of blue. Charles, disorientated but merely bruised, threw himself to the side, just in time to avoid the snarling, naked woman launching herself at the spot where he’d been seconds before.

Her head was partially caved in. Hank quelled the surge of nausea, wound down his window and turned his attention to Charles. “Professor?”

“She threw me,” Charles responded in a daze. “ _Threw_ me, with remarkable strength – marvellous, really quite _groovy – “_

Raven, in the meantime, narrowed her eyes at the Infected, and snatched the baseball bat from her brother’s hands. With a ear-splitting screech, the woman launched herself at her – Hank’s cry of alarm came out as an embarrassing squawk – only to meet the baseball bat with a sharp ‘crack’.

The Infected crumpled. Raven raised the bat once again, and dealt another heavy blow. And another. And another. There was a rather large amount of splattering blood.

Hank grimaced and turned his gaze away, looking instead at his mentor, who seemed similarly horrified.

It was this moment where the reality of the situation truly struck Hank McCoy. Perhaps it was seeing Charles Xavier, so brilliant and charming, lying on the floor in a useless and blood-splattered daze. Perhaps it was seeing Raven, bat slung over her shoulders like a conquering weapon, the sunlight blazing triumphantly off her red hair.

He had never thought of himself as an action movie hero. And yet, American media had imparted a deep, abiding urge to perform _some_ actions at least once in his life.

Hank leaned out of the window, adjusted his glasses, and cocked his head at the empty car seats. “Get in.”

***

**_The Green Flu has reached your city. The Infected walk the streets. What should you do?_ **

_In the next two chapters, readers will find general advice and techniques for defending their homes and local public spaces – or, should push come to shove, surviving while on the run. Tempting as it might be to assume one knows all there is to know about their place of residence, I must remind the reader that knowing one’s home and knowing how to pull a trigger hardly qualifies as knowledge of strategic defence against the Infected._

_Another thing I must reiterate that none of the following advice will be very useful if not considered with a calm mind. It is therefore advised that prior to continuing, the reader might greatly benefit from undertaking the following steps:_

_First, have a cup of tea._

_Second, have a seat._

_Finally, if applicable, call your sister._

**_\- Professor X’s Guide to Zombie Survival, Chapter Five: ‘The Value of Common Sense: A Foreword’, Page 70._ **

***

_October 3 rd, Year 2013, California Disneyland, the Further Destroyed Remains of the Carrousel Gate._

This was the New Plan:

According to Erik’s battered Disneyland map, the King Arthur Carrousel was planted solidly in between Thunder Mountain and the famed attraction: _It’s a Small World._

“Please no,” Sean begged.

Being a mini-cruise, the ride was set up in a middle of an artificial lake. Within the building, the depth of the water was negligible, but could be considerably increased – perhaps by a metal-bending mutant skilled enough to destroy the safety valves, which led to reserve water storage from Paradise Pier.

“We are going to drown,” Alex said flatly.

They would not drown. A cursory sweep of the structure had revealed platforms high above the maximum water level – high enough to allow for regrouping and planning in safety, while the Walkers wallowed below in their watery grave. The difficult part would be getting there before the horde, which was why the group was already sprinting east.

“Can’t you just _fly_ us out of here?” Scott panted, clutching his shades to his face. “Weren’t you practicing that?”

“No,” Erik said brusquely. He had, actually, without much success, but he wasn’t about to let the others know he was capable of failure.

Their feet pounded against the cobblestones. Erik took point, as usual, whipping aside the oncoming Infected with what remained of the streetlamps. He was beginning to tire, and for some reason, the ache in his arms brought to mind how intensely he’d prefer not to die. Not now. Funny, he’d thought he’d given up on finding –

“Lehnsherr!” Scott’s shout snapped him out of his reverie. “Where to?”

Erik pushed a ripple of metal-sense through the building, a map building itself in his mind’s eye. “Side entrance, across the lake a hundred yards ahead. I’ll – “ A squealing crunch, and the steel door crumpled. “ – make a door, turn left, up the stairs, climb the ladder – “

The lake water was cold, and soaked unpleasantly into his socks. Erik wrinkled his nose, and the party waded across with decidedly less grace as they displayed on land. They were shivering by the time they reached the opposite bank, and took a second to catch their breath.

They had approximately ten seconds before a wave of splashing heralded the Walkers’ approach.

“I’m tired,” Sean wheezed.

So was Erik, but he wasn’t about to admit that. “Cassidy, can you slow them down? Stun them, or something?”

The teenager shook his head, gesturing to his ears. “No working eardrums. Or not like ours, anyway.”

“Then we keep moving,” Erik decided, straightening up. He turned, looking for his rear guard. “Darwin?”

No response.

“Darwin?” Erik repeated, an edge to his voice.

“Right here,” the man in question said, somewhat shakily. He was seated at the water’s edge, and for some reason, seemed to be adjusting his sock.

Erik had no time for his party’s sock-related eccentricities. He nodded at the open entrance. “Take point. I’ll bring up the rear. Go!”

They went, a sodden, miserable band of Survivors, shoes slapping wetly against the floor and echoing around the darkened passageway. Erik made a vain attempt at replacing the mangled door, failed spectacularly, and redirected his power through the pipes in the walls.

_There._

“Is this the ladder?” Darwin called from the darkness ahead.

“Climb,” Erik barked out, his brow furrowed in concentration. The safety valves were better designed than he thought; they consisted of a complicated locking mechanism that would withstand most applications of brute force. The engineer in him would have approved, if he hadn’t desperately needed it open within sixty seconds.

Thirty, by the sounds of the groans at the door.

“Boss,” Alex said nervously.

“Quiet.” Erik let out a noise of frustration, and began scaling the ladder. From what he could see in the dim light, the platform was suspended over a large chamber – far below was something that looked like a miniature, doll-infested version of the Alps. “There’s been a complication.”

“What?” Sean’s voice, as expected, could reach an unnervingly high pitch. “What do you mean? We’re sitting ducks up here!”

‘Lensherr,” Scott added dangerously, “flood the place. Flood the _passageway.”_

“I can’t!” Erik’s exclamation came as a snarl, even as panic welled in his chest. “It’s not enough, I need – something, I need the _anger – “_

The other Survivors looked at each other.

“Your mom’s cooking is awful,” Sean suggested.

Erik snorted, and closed his eyes. “You’ve never met my mother.”

“You have bad hair.”

“I don’t care about your opinion.”

“I stole your last Twinkie.”

“No, Cassidy did.”

“Hey!”

“Lehnsherr,” Scott cut in. “I was the one who burned your turtlenecks for a smoke signal.”

Erik’s eyes flew open.

From behind the wall, there was a complicated sound of water, corpses, and animatronics tearing through a paper-mache of the Alps. 

***

_If you are reading this, **do not open this door.**_

_Do not open this door. Don’t open it if there’s a horde at your back. Don’t open it if you have nowhere else to go. Turn around now, and walk away._

_Do not open this door, or **I will find you.**_

-         _E.L._

***

_October 3 rd, Year 2013, California Disneyland, ‘It’s A Small World’, a Slightly Damp Platform._

“We’re alive,” Sean laughed weakly. He staggered to his feet, raising his hands and screaming into the echoing chamber. “ _We’re alive_!”

“Shut up,” Alex groused. “We’re still stuck here. What now, boss?”

Silence.

“Boss?” he repeated.

There was, once again, no reply. Instead, Erik leaned over the edge of the platform, and reached out a hand. With a flick of his wrist, he bent a distant metal shard, and used it to pluck a sodden sheaf of papers out of the water.

**_Professor X’s Guide to Zombie Survival._ **

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
